


seventy-five perpetual deaths for the underworld’s prince

by anonymousAlchemist



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, local cthonic god grows into his divinity, the seventy five deaths are not all described btw, this is.....a bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28618458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousAlchemist/pseuds/anonymousAlchemist
Summary: The air in the House of Hades is always static. Hours tick into days into nights into weeks, and time surely passes but Zagreus can't feel the slide of it. He measures change in runs through his father's domain, how many rooms ransacked, how much obol collected, how far he gets from the darkness of Tartarus's depths, through the heat of Asphodel and the cool breeze of Elysium. He measures time in the quickness of his blade. The slice of his spear. The deaths.Gods don't need to eat. Zagreus still hungers.
Relationships: Megaera/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 353





	seventy-five perpetual deaths for the underworld’s prince

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my hades fic please enjoy the experience of reading it thank you
> 
> tw: death, and death talk. but like. yknow. he comes back. but it's described! but look at the title and adjust expectations accordingly.

The air in the House of Hades is always static. Hours tick into days into nights into weeks, and time surely passes but Zagreus can't feel the slide of it. He measures change in runs through his father's domain, how many rooms ransacked, how much obol collected, how far he gets from the darkness of Tartarus's depths, through the heat of Asphodel and the cool breeze of Elysium. He measures time in the quickness of his blade. The slice of his spear. The deaths. 

He's always dying, these days. Explosions, stab wounds, waves of energy that drain the life out of him. Poison, strangling, beams of strange light. His father's spear, striking him down on the cold earth. 

It's so much colder on the surface, and the light is strange out there. Sharper, without the flickering glow that characterizes the underworld. He doesn't usually have time to appreciate it–his father strikes him down more times than not. 

Perhaps it's in their blood. Hades and his siblings killed their father and waged war against the Titans, ripped their bodies and cast them down. But Zagreus can't kill his father in any way that matters, the Styx simply pooling at Hades’ feet and dragging him into its depths. Zagreus' not sure if he'd want to kill his father permanently. 

His father is brutal, and unkind, and oppressive. His father keeps him in the gilded cage that is the House and berates him at every turn. His father is essential to the running of the House. 

Hades runs the underworld with an aggressive precision, though the running of the realm of the dead is like trying to catalogue the infinite. The underworld is the unformed space, the eternal rest, and mortals are always dying. The population of the realm below far outstrips the population of the world above, and Hades and his parchment and pen, his endless rooms of shades at desks, creates an order out of the chaos. Ensures the proper afterlife for every mortal, and everyone Zagreus knows works in that same clockwork harmony. 

Everyone but Zagreus. Zagreus, who leaves burnt footprints everywhere he steps. Zagreus, who has failed every job given to him by his father. Zagreus, god of...what, exactly? 

Zagreus, who can't die in any way that matters. Who can't live in any way that matters either. 

Shades speak of life on the surface like it was a vivid dream, like it is a scroll that has been rolled up and placed on a shelf, never to be unfurled again. Like they can no longer change. 

What does that mean about Zagreus? Who spent his whole life in the courtyards and corridors of the dimly lit House of Hades, who has never been allowed outside its walls. Who spent his childhood and youth among the dead and stewards of the underworld. The useless prince of hell, whose greatest accomplishment so far is breaking out of his childhood home with the help of his adoptive mother. 

Gods don't need to eat. Zagreus still hungers. 

Zagreus bleeds, and fights, and dies, and dies, and dies. 

# 

**DEATH #8**

Zagreus drips blood as he walks into the entrance hall. It slicks down his hair. It pools at his feet. 

"Stop dripping all over the carpets," his father booms from his desk. 

"I'm not dripping," Zagreus says, and ignores him to stride away to his rooms in the house, dodging shades and Nyx's gaze. He feels good, physically. He always feels good after he dies, as if the Styx, after rising to meet him pours his spilled vitality back into his body. He's definitely still dripping, though, and he makes a note to give Dusa another bottle of nectar in apology. 

He's fully dry by the time he walks past his father's high desk, both of them pretending to ignore each other. Hades mutters as Zagreus gives Cerberus a big scritch, but is otherwise silent, which Zagreus is thankful for. 

"Who's a good boy?" Zagreus says, and Cerberus barks, loud enough to shake the vases that line the corridor. 

"Enough!" Hades says. Zagreus rolls his eyes. Cerberus subsides. Zagreus walks away from his best boy off into the nearby hall where Achilles is standing near the administration halls. 

“Lad,” Achilles says quietly in greeting as Zagreus approaches. 

“Achilles! Sir!” Zagreus says, grinning. Achilles gives him an affectionate clasp on the shoulder. Zagreus beams. It’s nice to see someone who likes him. 

“How far did you get, lad? I heard that you got through most of Tartarus.” 

“Most of Tartarus,” Zagreus confirms. “Meg got to me, though.” 

“Ah, she’s a fierce one,” Achilles says. “Well done, though, lad. I hear from the shades, this is the farthest you’ve gotten?” 

“Are the shades in the house talking about me?” Zagreus says, surprised. “I didn’t know that they were.” 

“You’re the most interesting thing to happen to the House recently,” Achilles says. “Even though your father has forbidden talking about your escapes, that just means that everyone’s being a bit quieter.” 

“Well, that’s a change,” Zagreus says. He’s used to being a fixture of the house. The hapless prince. Dismissed from every job at his father’s command. He doesn’t feel like royalty, most days, nor like a god. 

“It’s a good story,” Achilles says a little wryly. Achilles knows about stories, Zagreus presumes. He was a hero while he was alive, though Achilles hasn’t told him much more about his mortal life. “The lord of the underworld’s son, on a quest to escape hell and ascend to Olympus where his immortal kin reside. Singlehandedly decimating the legions of wretches that his father sends after him.” 

“Well, when you put it that way,” Zagreus says. It sounds better when Achilles says it. “More glamorous than the truth, I suppose.” 

“I wouldn’t say that, lad,” Achilles says, thoughtfully. “There is glory and there is family, and though mortals speak of the former, most more intimately understand the latter.” Achilles says _most_ , like he’s not including himself in their count. Zagreus sometimes wonders about Achilles’ life, before he was Zagreus’ instructor. 

“Do they? I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Zagreus says. “Didn’t even know all that much about my own family until recently.” 

“Don’t forget your family in the House,” Achilles says. 

Zagreus scowls. “Oh, like my father tells me anything. He barely even treats me like a son, most of the time.” 

Achilles grimaces a bit, agreeing with Zagreus. “It’s one advantage that mortals have over the gods, I’ve often thought—perhaps I shouldn’t say this.” 

“No, say it,” Zagreus says, curious to see where Achilles is going with his statement. 

“Well—don’t take this the wrong way, lad, it’s just an observation—mortals have more models for relationships than the gods do. When a man becomes a father, he’s already seen other fathers, he’s had a father of his own in his life, if he’s fortunate. But it’s rare for gods to have children, rarer still that their children are divine.” 

“So you’re saying I should cut my father some slack,” Zagreus says sourly. 

“No, not at all,” Achilles says. “He’s terribly unfair to you. But I suspect it’s not malice that drives his actions, but ignorance. Though I shouldn’t say as much about my employer.” 

“Of course, sir,” Zagreus says. He understands Achilles’ position in the house. Achilles nods. 

“I didn’t mean your father when I mentioned your family here,” Achilles says. “Or not, just your father. But there’s Nyx, your foster-siblings. Cerberus, even. Me. People care about you, lad.” 

“Oh,” Zagreus says, surprised by the candor, trying not to blush. “Well, thank you sir. I care about you—all of you, as well. I suppose I better get back at it.” 

Achilles smiles at him. “That’s the spirit.” 

# 

**DEATH #19**

The glint of sunlight on the snow blinds Zagreus. It forces him to squint as he dashes around his father, trailing blood from stab wounds, smeared with green ichor that burns his skin. 

“Go _home_ , boy,” Hades snarls, another thrust of his spear that Zagreus only narrowly dodges. 

“Not happening,” Zagreus pants, stumbling over his flash-step. He’s never felt so alive. The air sharp in his lungs. His cuts stinging. His feet slamming through snow and burning the ground beneath. The part of his brain not occupied with dodge, cut, duck, slash, is wondering if the surface is all like this, the bitter electric cold, the way everything is too bright and too wet and too strange. 

His father swings his spear in a clean sweep that Zagreus deftly anticipates and ducks under. It’s almost like a conversation. His father lunges, Zagreus parries, strikes with his sword and then dashes away before his father can hit again. It’s the most conversation they’ve done in a long time. 

Things were easier when Zagreus was younger, before his father had expectations, before Zagreus started asking why he couldn’t leave the House. Zagreus would sit on Cerberus’s large paw and watch his father work, and during the lulls his father would let him sit on the desk as long as he didn’t put his feet on the paperwork. His father used to act like he liked him. Now, Zagreus wonders why his father even bothers to try and stop him. 

“I don’t understand why you’re trying to stop me,” Zagreus pants. 

“You wouldn’t understand, boy,” Hades says. 

“So explain it to me!” Zagreus says. 

“Go _home_ ,” Hades repeats again, and does a clever twist with his spear, burying it in Zagreus’s heart. Zagreus gasps. 

The last thing Zagreus sees is his father looming over him. 

# 

**DEATH #23**

"Give in, Zagreus," Meg says. She's got her stiletto heel in the hollow of Zagreus's neck. He's choking, small little gasps of air escaping his mouth. Meg got the drop on him this time, which Zagreus will cheerfully admit is his own fault. He hadn't used the Fists of Malphon before, and there's a bit of a learning curve. 

Meg's heel sharp on his neck. Her hair falling on his face as she leans over him. They've been here before. Zag can't deny that this sight stirs something in him. Gods, she's so beautiful. She's flecked with little red droplets of his blood, and he wants to kiss them off. 

"Never, Meg," he wheezes. 

Her eyes narrow. She shifts her weight so that she's kneeling on his chest now, but still the point of her heel digs into his throat. "Why do you always have to make everything difficult, Zagreus," she says. 

Zagreus doesn't know. Zagreus, if he could speak, might say that easiness stifles him. His whole childhood was easy. He could have spent his entire existence with _easy_ , if he was the son that his father wanted. 

There must be something wrong with him, that these are the moments where he feels most divine. The knife’s edge of death, the last obstinate dregs of life singing in his veins. It feels like he was made for the struggle. Maybe that’s what he’s the god of: lost causes. 

Meg’s face softens a little, or maybe Zagreus is imagining it due to the asphyxiation. Her hair falling in a blue wave. Her lipstick still perfect. She’s immovable in her appearance as she is in her duty, and he admires that about her, how she carries herself like a weapon. He wants her to hone herself on him. He could be her whetstone, if he stayed. But he’s not going to stay. 

The weight of her is a cold thing on his chest. Everyone in the underworld runs cooler than he does. Her hand brushing blood from his mouth. Zagreus remembers her doing this before, in the stillness of his bedroom after she had accidentally cut his lip. She never played nice. It was intoxicating. 

“Give in,” she says, and Zagreus musters up the last ounce of his strength to grin at her through bloodstained teeth. Zagreus never played nice either. 

“Never,” he whispers, and Meg’s eyes flash and she presses her heel through his throat. 

# 

**DEATH #29**

Zagreus is dying in inches this time. Poison painstakingly climbs its way through his veins, and it feels like he’s burning from the inside out. He’d managed to hold his own against the vermin, but he’s out of time and chances and he can practically feel his cells shutting down. 

He was so close to the surface, too. Which hurts more than the poison, actually, the knowledge that his entire run up to now was all for nothing, and now he’s lying on a grimy stone floor dying before he even sees the clear winter sunlight. 

The sound of a gong. The world bathed in green light. Thanatos pops into existence between one heartbeat and the next. Zagreus can see Than’s bare feet hovering a few inches above the flagstone. They’re very clean. 

“Does poison count as non-violent death, these days?” Zagreus says, putting care into making his voice clear, lifting his head slightly off the flagstones. Ah, there’s the rest of Thanatos. Draped black cloak, big fuckoff scythe, handsome face that looks like it’s been chiseled from silver stone. Zagreus kind of misses the long hair, but he also wants to brush his fingers through Than’s bangs. 

“It’s close enough,” Than says, hovering closer. Zagreus doesn’t know why Than is here. He had seemed so hurt, the last time they talked. Even though before that they hadn’t talked in...eons, really. He hadn’t expected Thanatos to take time off from work to confront him about leaving. It’s not that he wanted to hurt Than’s feelings, it’s more that he didn’t think that Than would care so much, but he’s clearly misjudged something. 

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a challenge right now,” Zagreus says. “So, you know. Whatever you’re here for, Than. Ready for the scythe.” He gestures vaguely at himself. The burning is getting really bad now. Than levels him with a look. 

"I hate to see you hurt, Zag," Than says flatly. "I'm not Meg."

“I wouldn’t want you to be,” Zagreus says weakly. He’s misjudged things again. 

Than’s gaze softens at that, for some reason. He stops floating and kneels down on the floor next to Zagreus’s body. “Sorry about your run, Zag. You got pretty far.” 

“Well, there’s always next time,” Zagreus sighs. He pats Than’s thigh floppily. His fine motor control is really going. “Take me home, I suppose.” 

Than covers Zag’s hand with his own. It’s nice and cool. Anesthetic. “Is it still home?” Than asks, and then, “Close your eyes, Zagreus.” 

Zagreus closes his eyes and before he can answer there’s a sharp sound and the darkness behind his eyelids slides into the red of the River Styx. 

# 

**DEATH #31**

Zagreus collapses in his mother’s arms. She’s very warm, warmer than any of the Chthonic gods. Warmer than Zagreus, which is a novelty for him. 

“Oh, Zagreus,” she says. “You are your father’s son, I suppose.” 

Zagreus would like to respond to that, but it’s like all his flesh has turned to lead. Like something inside him is melting. Persephone holds him up, uses one hand to cradle his neck like he’s a child, like she never had the opportunity to before. “The underworld has you in its grasp,” she says. “I had hoped that you didn’t share your father’s curse, but it looks like we only have a short time together.” 

Zagreus would speak, if he could. The best he can manage is a breathy “Oh.” 

“Come back to me,” she says, sinking to the ground so that he’s lying across her lap, facing the sky with his head against her shoulder. He wants to lift his arms and embrace her, he wants to tell her that of course he’ll come back, that he’d fight his way through the underworld a thousand times to speak with her again, that he’s sorry to go, that he’ll miss her, that he’s so glad that he found her. That he’s glad she wants to see him again. 

She smiles at him like she knows what he wants to say. “See you soon, my son,” his mother says, and Zagreus closes his eyes. 

It feels like the air is sapping the strength from his limbs. Dying feels like falling asleep. 

# 

**~~DEATH #35~~ **

Zagreus collapses on the bank of the River Lethe, near a shady copse of trees through which the soft blue light filters. He sighs deeply. It hurts something in his chest to breathe, and he’s quite aware that one more good hit will put him out of his misery. 

“You’re looking rough, stranger,” a familiar voice floats over from nearby. Zagreus glances to his left and sees Patroclus sitting by the riverbank, looking slightly amused. “Not going to rush on to the next battle?” 

“Thank you, sir, but I think I’ll just lie down here and die,” Zagreus says, lying in the cool green grass of Elysium. The Lethe whispers along next to him. It’s peaceful here, which is a strange contrast to the way everyone in Elysium is always trying to kill him. 

“Come now, stranger, it can’t be as bad as all that,” Patroclus says, a hint of humor at the edge of his dispassionate voice. 

“You’re right, sir, it’s worse,” Zagreus says, groaning. 

Patroclus chuckles. “Poor young god. Here, I suspect this is what you’ll be wanting.” He walks over to Zagreus and sits next to him, holding out the silver vessel that holds the red elixir everyone calls _Kiss of Styx_ , though it doesn’t taste anything like the river—Zagreus would know. 

“Thank you sir,” Zagreus says, sitting up and taking the vessel, downing the contents in one long swallow. 

“And here,” Patroclus says, handing him something else wrapped in what looks like wax paper. 

“You’re rather kinder than usual today, sir,” Zagreus says, taking the bundle and opening it to find a tasty looking wrap. He takes a big bite. He feels immediately better. 

“You caught me in a good mood,” Patroclus says. “Enjoy it while it lasts, they’re rarer than they used to be.” 

“Well, I’m grateful,” Zagreus says. 

“How strange, that a god should be grateful to me,” Patroclus says. “Though I’m glad he appreciates my offerings.” 

Zagreus frowns. “You’re mocking me.” 

“Just a little,” Patroclus says. “I find it amusing, that is all. Your life crossing paths with my death. You, a young godling; me, a shade who can’t appreciate paradise.” 

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I can’t appreciate it either,” Zagreus says, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Or I’d spend far less time trying to break out of the underworld. You have no love for gods, do you?”

“Not after what they did during the war,” Patroclus says. “After how their machinations and prophecy handled my beloved.” 

Patroclus doesn’t often speak of Achilles. Just the same as Achilles doesn’t often speak of Patroclus. “He’s fine, now, if that helps,” Zagreus says quietly. 

“It does,” Patroclus sighs. “Though you’ll forgive my lack of love for your relatives.” 

“That’s alright,” Zagreus says, and then a little sardonic, “I don’t always love my relatives either.” 

# 

**DEATH #37**

Zagreus washes ashore on the steps of the House. He feels excellent, as he always does after a death, as if he’s been supercharged with life somewhere along the journey back. He never remembers that part, just the faintest echo of warm liquid buoying his body down the river Styx. 

“Hey, he’s back!” Hypnos says. Zagreus waves at him before pulling a towel from the towel rack. That had been a good investment, no matter what his father opined. He shakes the blood from his hair and sluices it from his arms before discarding the towel in the bin and walking down the main hall, dodging shades.

His father isn’t home, which is refreshing, and infuriating, because it was his father’s hand which killed him. It’s also annoying because it means that there’s more shades than usual in the main hall. Some of them nod to him as he passes. Others bow, or stare. Zagreus wonders what they’ve heard of him. 

It’s strange to think of building a reputation, but everyone has been mentioning it lately. Eurydice told him about the rumors of him in Asphodel; Theseus blustered about how Zagreus was known as a daemon from the depths of Tartarus; Sisyphus mentioned that the other shades had asked him about Zagreus and their friendship. The dead are beginning to know who Zagreus is, even if the living have no idea of his existence. 

Zagreus had always wondered why his father had kept his existence a secret. He had assumed his father was ashamed of him. His father probably _is_ ashamed of him, but the secrecy around Zagreus’s existence is more fear than shame. Zagreus shouldn’t exist, after all. Zagreus was born dead and now can’t die. If Zagreus knew too much he could unravel the House by speaking too loosely to his Olympian relatives. 

It’s a grave thought. Zagreus knows things that could cause war, if he wanted to bring war. If he hated the House so much as to bring war. His cousin Ares would be pleased, at least. But Zagreus doesn’t want to cause a war, or to bring down the House. 

Oh, he hates the House sometimes. It was his prison as much as his home for countless days or nights, occasionally he wants to tear down its walls and never return. But his family and friends are here, and they love the House, they serve the House, and it is hard for Zagreus to hate something that Nyx built for their family. And it’s easier now, to be here when he knows that he can leave, even if that leavetaking has no permanence. It’s easier to sit at the lounge and share a surreptitious bottle of nectar with Achilles when he knows that he can take his sword and climb out the window after. 

And it’s rather nice, in a morbid sort of way, to wash ashore after death and be greeted by a friend. 

# 

**DEATH #41**

Zagreus’s mother is showing him the garden, and they are both quietly pretending that Zagreus is not going to be dead within the hour. Zagreus is holding a basket for his mother, which is a novel experience. Nyx never asked him to hold baskets while she explained the names and purposes of surface plants to him. Zagreus thinks he could like gardening, given the time to learn. It’s nice to walk beneath the sun and smell the strange scent of things growing. 

"What does it look like, when the Styx takes me?" Zagreus asks. Persephone pauses from where she’s picking a bunch of grapes off the trellis. 

“What a morbid question, my son,” she says, but she sounds more amused than upset. 

“Well, I was just wondering!” Zagreus says. “I just feel bad that you see it every time, that’s all.” 

Persephone detaches the grapes from their vine. “Don’t feel bad. It’s not violent to watch. The Styx pools around you and pulls your body under. Does it hurt?” 

“No,” Zagreus says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t hurt at all.” 

“Good,” Persephone says, and there’s a tightness around her eyes now. 

“What’s wrong?” Zagreus asks. 

Persephone laughs, the sort of laugh that people do when there’s nothing funny about what they’re going to say. “Oh, it’s just—well, it’s not violent, but I hate to see you die, Zagreus. I’m your mother.” 

She takes the basket from him, and hands him the bunch of grapes. “Try these. They came in nice this year.” 

Zagreus obediently pops a grape into his mouth, where it bursts all liquid sunlight sweetness. “It’s ‘ood,” he says, and swallows. “I’m...sorry? About the dying. I can’t really help that, Mother.” 

Persephone laughs again, and this time it’s real. “It’s not your fault, Zagreus! I certainly don’t blame you for the Fates’ design. And it’s worth it, to spend any time with you at all.” 

“I feel the same way,” Zagreus says, feeling something warm in his chest. Persephone smiles at him. 

“I see so little of your life, my son,” Persephone says. “What is it like for you, in the Underworld?” 

“What is my life like?” Zagreus says. Persephone nods. Zagreus frowns. What is his life like? His life is violent. His life is arguing with his father. His life is trying to figure out his friends’ romantic tangles. His life is trying to figure out _his_ romantic tangles. His life is more interesting than it used to be. He’s eager to go talk to Meg and Than again, maybe get everything straightened out. He’s eager to put in more orders with the House Contractor, maybe buy Cerberus a new toy. 

“Are you happy?” she asks gently. 

Zagreus frowns deeper, and then a wave of weakness forces him to sit down. 

“Maybe?” he says, and then he’s preoccupied with dying again. 

#

Zagreus wouldn’t tell anyone unless he was asked directly, and maybe he wouldn’t tell them the whole truth, he would couch it in prettier language if he had a moment to think, but the simple truth of the matter is that Zagreus rather likes dying. It’s the change of it, like lighting a match or blowing out a candle, the alchemical transmutation of himself into himself. 

Even the pain and the mess isn’t terrible. He likes the way it makes him focus, makes him feel centered in his flesh, which feels like a disrespectful thing to say considering all the mortals who consider death the ultimate terror. It was strange to learn that mortals fear death. It’s the first time he’s felt more god than mortal, when he learned from Thanatos that mortals are scared of dying. 

Death means the House, for Zagreus. Death means the calm submerge of his body in the River Styx, it means a long endless moment of nothing and then the return, always the return. 

# 

**DEATH #64**

Zagreus is watching the sunrise. He can tell in his blood that he’s not going to make the trip out to his mother’s cottage, without her presence to stabilize him all his cells seem to deteriorate more quickly. So he’ll take the consolation prize of sitting against an olive tree and watching the sun rise over the ocean, and then he’ll beg his mother’s forgiveness when he returns to the House. 

The ringing of a gong. A flash of green light. 

“Death approaches,” Than intones, because he’s too dramatic for his own good sometimes. Zagreus tips his head back and grins. Than smiles back, the smallest twitch of his lips. 

“Hey, Than,” Zag says. “Come to take me back?” 

“I felt your soul untethering,” Than says, which isn’t a no. “I had some time between jobs.” 

Though the prince of the Underworld would never make such an irreverent gesture as _grabby hands_ at his boyfriend, Zagreus gestures in a movement not unlike grabby hands. Than huffs a laugh, rolls his eyes, and sits down in a smooth gesture next to Zagreus. It’s close enough for Zagreus to lie his head on Than’s shoulder, to take Than’s hand and twine their fingers together. 

Than had said that Zagreus never knew when to push. He’s trying to learn. It seems to be working, because Than slowly lowers his head so that his cheek is pressed against Zagreus’s hair. 

“This is nice,” Zagreus says. “Like a date.” 

“You’d call this a date?” Than says, voice rich with amusement. 

“ _Like_ a date,” Zagreus says. “You know, we’re watching the sun rise, holding hands. Some would call this _romantic_.” 

“Mm,” Than says, and squeezes Zagreus’ hand. 

They watch the sunrise in silence for a while. The sky turns pink. The water glimmers. Than’s body is like a long slab of ice, in a way that is pleasant against Zagreus’s side. 

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave the way you wanted,” Than says abruptly. “But I’m glad you’re staying.” 

The sun climbs higher as Zagreus tries to figure out what he wants to say. Than is quiet next to him. 

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” Zagreus says slowly. “I mean, you specifically. And I thought that of everyone, you would be the one I could see again, anyway. Since you spend so much time on the surface. But I’m sorry that I didn’t think of your feelings beforehand.” 

“It’s alright,” Than says. “It wasn’t kind of me to lash out at you. I suppose I had just thought that you would always be around. That whenever I came back from the surface I could come find you in the House. I shouldn’t have taken that for granted.”

“Well you can, if you want,” Zagreus says, a weak joke. “It’s not like I can leave.” 

Than raises his head. Zagreus lifts his own and looks into Than’s liquid gold eyes. 

“You could,” Than says, with all the grave seriousness he brings to his conversations. “If you really wanted to, you’d find a way. You’re a god, Zag. You’re at least mostly Olympian. You’ve got all of eternity to figure it out.” 

Zagreus laughs, mostly to break the tension, and averts his eyes. “Guess I don’t really want to leave, then.” 

“Good,” Than says, and brings a hand up to tilt Zagreus’ face upward, and then he’s coming closer and kissing Zag with cool lips, and between one heartbeat and the next Death takes him, and he’s gone. 

#

**~~DEATH #75~~ **

Things are easier between Zagreus and his father, these days. The official appointment helps, mother smoothing the conversation between them helps more. Forgiveness might be out of the question by mutual agreement, but reconciliation is still on the table. And a few dozen deaths ago, Zagreus might have been less amenable to the idea, but enough conversations with his Olympian aunts, uncles, and cousins, have given him a longer view of history. Theirs is a long life, bracketed by the same souls, and it can be a lonely long existence without some forgetting of past sins. 

That doesn’t mean his father doesn’t fight him to the death at the entrance to the Underworld, though. There are _standards_ to their security. 

“Too slow, old man,” Zagreus grins, spitting blood. 

“Stand _still_ for a second,” his father booms, sweeping his spear in a long arc. Zagreus jumps back. “Your mother coddles you,” his father grumbles. 

“My mother is a delight,” Zagreus says, darting back further and loosing a spray of arrows. “And you can’t argue with that!” 

His father scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. It’s easier to talk with him now, even though most of their conversations take place over fights. They’re both taking it easy today—mostly today’s duel is over who gets to sit in the snow and go fishing, and who has to go home and do parchmentwork. 

“Your footwork has gotten better,” Hades says, a rare compliment as he raises his spear to summon his wretches. “I suppose I should be thanking Achilles.” 

“Achilles and all of Tartarus’ traps,” Zagreus says, dodging around a few skulls and pulling his bow back for arrow after arrow. “Your realm has much to answer for, father.” 

“Our realm,” Hades corrects, which startles Zagreus enough for his father to get the drop on him and neatly slice at his arm. “Keep your guard up, boy!” 

Zagreus hisses and darts back. “Psychological warfare is cheating!” 

Hades laughs. “There’s no cheating in battle, Zagreus. Especially among family.” 

“There are rules to formal duels, father,” Zagreus says, through his teeth, as he breathes in and feels the crystallization of his blood pooling on his palms as he runs. Artemis guide his hand, he prays. 

“This is not a formal duel, boy,” Hades says, pursuing apace, but slower than he was at the beginning of the battle. “ _You_ are playing the part of the fool shade who has nearly managed to escape the Underworld, and _I_ am the warden on my last chance to apprehend you.” 

“Well, looks like your security might be lacking, father,” Zagreus says, loading his bloodstones into his bow, loosing the string, and sending the arrow that explodes into a blast in the middle of his father’s chest. 

His father collapses in the middle of his stride. Zagreus waits a moment to see if he rises, but Hades remains a crumpled monolith on the ground. “Father?” he asks, a little hesitant. This part’s always awkward. 

His father raises his head. His eyes gleam. “Well...done….boy,” he wheezes, before the Styx rises to take him. 

“Our realm, huh,” Zagreus says thoughtfully to no one, and walks over to the fishing point. He’ll follow Hades soon enough. 

#

Zagreus doesn’t think of his godhood often. Most of the time he’s just _Zagreus_ , who never quite learned how to teleport properly, who burns the floors with his feet unless he’s careful, who gives offerings to the other gods like he’s some sort of mortal. 

Except he’s not, and it’s becoming increasingly clear as he clears the underworld. He’s growing stronger. Some runs he doesn’t even need his cousins’ help, which had surprised his father dearly at the surface. The shades whisper about him. The Elysian crowds sometimes cheer for him. Orpheus’s incorrect hymn has spread across the realm. 

He feels...good, these days. Like something missing had slotted into place. 

# 

**DEATH #75**

His mother is working in the garden when he returns, after Zagreus towels off and says hello to everyone en-route—Hypnos, Cerberus, Orpheus, Nyx, a kiss from Meg. The garden is dark, lit by braziers burning with green fire, but there’s a lushness to the space unmatched by any other space in the Underworld. The trees are heavy with pomegranates, and his mother is using a large set of shears to prune some bushes. 

“Achilles thinks that I’m the god of blood,” Zagreus says, without any preamble. 

“Hello, mother, how was your day? Oh, fine, my son, and how was yours?” Persephone says, teasing as she sets the shears down on a bench. 

“Hello mother, my day was fine, I killed father and caught three fish,” Zagreus says, grinning at her teasing. 

“How wonderful, my darling,” Persephone says. “A break for your father from his parchmentwork.” 

“I live to serve,” Zagreus says, and she laughs, as was his intention. “But, really, mother. I wanted to ask you about this. My godhood, I mean.”

“So, Achilles thinks you’re the god of blood,” his mother repeats thoughtfully. “Hm, well, he might be right about that.” 

“Might?” Zagreus says with dismay. “How could you not know?” 

“Demeter didn’t know I was a goddess at all until I failed to age,” Persephone says. “Divinity is complicated. Personal.” 

“Well, that doesn’t help me then,” Zagreus says. “I’ve felt that I was growing stronger, though. That’s why I asked.” 

Persephone hums thoughtfully. “Well. I used to wonder what you would end up like, based on me and your father’s domain. Verdure and death. Quite at odds! No wonder the fates spoke against your existence, though I’m beyond glad Nyx defied them.” 

Zagreus nods. 

“Blood makes sense, in many ways. Rebirth, regeneration, life and death. And you die so easily, my son. But you never stay gone. I think—gods and titans are immortal until they’re not,” Persephone says. “But you’re mortal until you’re not.” 

“That’s...unsettling, actually,” Zagreus says. “Don’t really like to think about it like that.” 

“You asked,” Persephone says, a reminder that growth is not always comfortable. She softens the blow by leaning down and picking up a pomegranate from the basket, handing the heavy fruit to him. “And another thing we gods don’t like to think about is how we owe our existence to mortals. Their stories, their worship, their awe.” 

“Well, nobody on the surface knows about me,” Zagreus says, cutting a long slice in the fruit’s skin with his belt knife. “So that’s nothing—” 

“The dead were mortal as well, my son,” Persephone cuts in, not unsympathetically. “And the shades know all about you, now. And blood means something to the dead, despite their lack of it. Both violence and bond, wound and promise.” 

“Oh,” Zagreus says. 

“Olympian by birth, Chthonic by worship,” Persephone says, as if she’s quoting something. “In some ways, I’m sorry your father and I have given you such a complicated legacy. It might have been simpler had you been able to be raised on Olympus.” 

“No,” Zagreus surprises himself by saying. 

He’d hated parts of his upbringing. Hated the House. Hated the listlessness of his existence for the longest time. But he finds himself...content, these days, in a way that he had never expected to be. If the Underworld is his prison, it is a large and ever expanding one. If he doesn’t live like an immortal, he doesn’t die like one either. If he must work in his father’s House, let it be his House as well, with his mothers and his lovers and his friends all sheltered underneath. Perhaps what he has always resented was not the location but the lack of choice in it. Perhaps someday he’ll still leave, unlock the reason behind his ties to the Underworld, defy the fates for the second time in his life. 

But for now, he stands with his mother in the garden lit by green light, and cracks open the pomegranate, exposing the rich red interior. He offers half of the fruit to Persephone. She takes it, leaving his fingers stained with red juice. 

“I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad you’re back,” Zagreus says, and places some arils in his mouth, bites down, feels the crunch of them under his teeth, the taste of them sweet and dark and familiar. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! let me know what you thought! thank you and goodnight! 
> 
> im elsewhere @ [anonymousalchemist.tumblr.com](http://anonymousalchemist.tumblr.com/).


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